an unsafe edge
by invocations
Summary: It could be you. Postgame, Squall and Rinoa.


**an unsafe edge**

They say you're sick and that you need to rest for a while. So far, they're not telling you anything new- you've been fading and slowly falling behind, a semitone behind everyone else's rhythm. You see it as plain as you can see your drawn face in the mirror, and you know as well as they do that there's nothing physically wrong with you. Everything feels so steady here, so stable- and sometimes you feel like the only beating heart in this place, even if it is thrumming to an erratic tune, even if it is a different kind of heart.

You feel his hand at your elbow, reassuring. A faint smile touches your lips as you regard him, and he tries to return one as full as yours. The session over, he leads you out of the clinic with one firm hand twined into yours. It feels as if you're five and he's helping you cross the road, and you feel an inexplicable burst of anger. It cools rapidly and your eyes drop. He's only trying to help.

They all say that you saved him, that you Took Him Out of His Shell— as if he were a shellfish that you casually pried out with a fork. As if it were so simple, a matter tackled over dinner. Now they're murmuring that maybe it's time for him to save you, once again, the damsel in distress. But you're not in distress, and it's not a matter of _saving_, the way you'd catch someone from falling too far. You think these thoughts quite violently, and when he asks you a question- something about what you want for dinner, or what's on your mind, or _something _like that- you snap at him. How much you _hate_ being the damsel, as if you needed to be saved. You wish that you kept the words swallowed.

"…I don't think of you that way," he says after a short pause, eyes stern. His shoulders hunch, almost defensively, and you think that he's annoyed. He seems to walk a little faster, making the pill container rattle with each solid step. His grip on your hand does not relax. When he turns his eyes towards you again, they are unshuttered and you realise he's hurt that you'd even think that way.

It feels important, somehow, for you keep your teeth firmly latched on your tongue as he leads you through the silence.

**.  
.  
.**

He never once asks what's wrong with you, or demands to know. You decide, eventually (half-heartedly) that he must understand— but even this is second-guessed. How could he, when he's a part of the rhythm here? He's a Key Player. Your friends are, too. So are you, in the scheme of things, in a wider view. But you'd just like to be yourself, unadorned, roles and expectations stripped aside. There are so many of them, being with him, and what you've become since your path has joined his the day you waltzed into his world.

Right now, you'd just like to be better. You want to be, because you never give up. You want to be better, for him, because you feel that he deserves more than this. Two small pills gleam in your hand, and you sense his eyes on you. You want to be better. Quickly, you cup them into your mouth and chase them down with water. The water is too cold and a shuddery grimace surfaces on your face before you can hide it. You glance anywhere but at him, not wanting to see his worry at your discomfort. You don't want him to think that you're in any distress. Or a martyr. You want to be better. He turns, finally, to get changed.

Curled up on the bed, you watch him through half-slitted eyes. He notices and favours you with a small smile. It's not so surprising to see it anymore (because you Saved Him) but you treasure it anyway, and you flutter a limp hand in return before closing your eyes. You hear him walk across the room in his perfect, Key Player tread. He's cut out for it, made for it, however unwilling he is to assume the mantle. He's good through and through, and you wonder how and why you're here beside him.

He eases himself into bed beside you. After a pause, you feel his puzzlement because you haven't moved to wrap yourself around him like you usually do. You don't realise it, but you hold your breath. He reaches out a shy hand across the sheets, and you take it, let him pull you over. You appreciate the gesture and tuck your head under his chin, wearing him like a protective shroud.

The stillness is broken with his low voice. He comments on little things- an unusual leaf he noticed, the colour of the sky, a small snatch of conversation he overheard today- and with a small twinge of pride, you realise these are things you taught him to look out for. Things he never used to talk about. He's trying to cheer you up with their mention. You appreciate it, but you seize up against the thought of him _changing_ while you're like this. But you murmur in the appropriate places, and nod until the small trickle of conversation runs dry.

"Sleep well," he says into your hair. You let him feel the smile against his cheek. You wonder why he's so nice to you when you've been so untoward for the past few weeks.

It must be love, love, love.

**.  
.  
.**

Sometimes you just want him to doubt you. Perhaps it's just so you can entertain the thought of some excitement, or have something to prove, or even just so you can have some affirmation of the reasons why you think he should doubt you. A few minutes after, you'll dismiss this thought because really, you don't mean it. Not in the way that it suggests, anyway, because you don't play with hearts and you don't need to be entertained. It's a defence, you realise, if you're cynically alert enough. Dump them before they can dump you, only in this case it's expecting him to doubt you before he actually begins. Pre-empting.

What really bothers you is that unerring faith he has in you, as if you could do no wrong. Sometimes you wait for him to grow impatient and tweeze you from his life with neat fingernails, as if you were a splinter under his skin. But he's so peaceful- not resigned - and it tells you that he won't. He accepts you, flaws and all- your flightiness (it's been said, and you know it to be true) your moods (everchanging), your unpredictability, your need to talk, your _neediness_ at times. Is that what they call love, you ask yourself, when they gloss over these things? Or is it a willing blindness? You don't understand how he could love this, love you, how he could overlook these things.

The worst of it is that you know how this overlooking business works, up there in your head—or really, down there in your heart. Sometimes, you are just too caught up to remember. The faults that are present in him are overlooked, of course, but that's _him_. You don't doubt him. He doesn't know how bad you are, and you wonder sometimes how you could have ended up in arms belonging to someone so _good._

As if summoned, the door creaks open and you hear him enter the room hesitantly, as if he were a guest afraid of overstepping his bounds. You know he has work to do, but knows you aren't taking well to the medication and how it's agitated your system. And here he is. He's so faithful it makes you want to cry, and you feel putrid with happiness that he is so patient with you. He's nearing you now, checking up on you. The rustle of his weight on the bed is loud as he leans a hand on your hot cheek, monitoring your temperature. His hand is cold marble, but his painstaking care burns and shames you. You know he's worried, but you feign sleep. The secret weight of your thoughts leadens your tongue and you can't bear to speak to him. Slowly, carefully, you turn your mind away from him. He can't know what you're thinking.

He thinks you must be asleep, so he leaves. The door slides gently to a close while your eyes crack open. There is a flare of relief, but your chest feels heavier and your cheeks don't only burn with fever. A whisper says, you don't deserve him. And you turn your face into the pillow and your thoughts back to him.

You'd never go as far as to plant the nebulous seeds of doubt into his mind. That would be to throw away your past and future with both hands. It would be to hurt him, and you'd much rather wound yourself than to see him in pain. It would be to forget everything you and he had gone through. _Grown_ through. You don't want to let that go.

Why these things occur to you sometimes, you don't really know. You know it's irrational, these little-girlthoughts, but your mind gnaws at it greedily. It's an unsafe edge you have, the way you walk around sometimes, a toy wound up tight on the verge of a noisy frenzy. On days like these, you're afraid you won't be able to swallow this keening frenzy. Imagine it; crackling through your hair like electricity as you stalk around the room, eyes feverish with the need to _do something._ You don't realise it, but you're scared that the restlessness would overtake you and you'll decide that you don't want him, or worse, that he couldn't want you. You worry that you may leave him behind, only to realise mid-step that the idea was half-baked, impulsive. But you know that you won't walk away.

Fierce bands of love tighten around your heart when you think of him. It's a quiet, tacit trust that he has, a steadfast pillar built over many years of feeling and knowing. And there's an edge in you that waits for it to come crumbling down.

**.  
.  
.**

You feel the need to apologise, one day. You gesture at your prone form as you speak, as if that explains everything. There's a new desperation in your voice that you despise and that you're sure he's noticed. You keep telling yourself this isn't like you, but there it is, clear for him to notice. You hope he doesn't. He just sits there and you want to shake him. A torrent of reasons lies in wait, ready to spill out until it froths at your mouth, but you bite your tongue because he's sharper than you think. The hunch of his shoulders is familiar and it makes you shrink away, but he clasps your hand, tugs. You turn straight into his glare.

"Are you saying this because this is what you think I want to hear?"

You shake your head, dumbly, the quiet force of his voice knocking over the half-arrangements and tangles of words in your head. Doesn't he understand? This is what you think. You never said things for the mere sake of appeasing anybody else because such words are wasted words. He knows that. He watches you think, and you keep watching him, tight, waiting for him to end it all.

His shoulders hunch closer and he looks like a bird shielding itself from the wind, perched on your bedside. When he leans closer, you notice that his eyes are a painful grayblue. He swallows, hard, and his face softens when he notices that you look like a frightened child.

"It's not what I want to hear. Don't say it again."

You just want to be better. He knows your words before you even say them and he sighs.

"I know."

A pause, a handheld silence. You close your eyes as he drifts nearer to you. Or are you drifting to him, like a lost satellite? You don't know about that, or anything, save the certainty of his goodness.

"You're going to be better," he says with a hand in your hair. He says it so low, so certain, and you marvel at the steel in his voice, the way it makes the unsafe thoughts trip away, flailing their skinny arms in a way that says they'll be back. You nod, reaching up for his arm and drawing him down, enjoying the surprise on his features and the silence settling around the room.

You hope he's right.


End file.
